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Controlling Your Weeds

By Rachael K. Jones

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I always mow it twice a week during peak season. Some might consider that excessive, but if you want to keep a lawn happy, you’ve got to put in the work. That starts with regular mowing. The ideal height is three inches in spring and two inches in fall, which protects against pest incursion and cuts down on the amount of watering needed. Now that’s a little longer than your average grass this far South, but here we grow something a little more unusual than your average Kentucky bluegrass or bermudagrass. A twice-a-week schedule helps me stay on top of my lawn’s needs. Plus it gives me an excuse to patrol the yard for weeds.

People have strong opinions on lawn mowers–gas versus electric, push versus riding. I’m of the opinion that any mower will work, as long as the grass gets cut. My granddaughter likes the riding mower at her elementary school, but gas mowers are loud. Hear that roar? Hush now and listen, Aiden. It’s distant now, but you can feel it in your jawbone, like an approaching bomber on a cloudy day.

Now we get to the important part: you’ve got to stay on top of weeds. They creep in from outside the yard, carried by wind and birds and those nasty little brats who think it’s funny to jump my fence when they lose a soccer ball. One of these days, they’re going to find more than just their soccer balls waiting for them in my yard, and then they’ll wish they’d learned the respect their parents neglected to teach them.

Hey now, Aiden. That kind of language is uncalled for. I’m not being unreasonable. A man has a right to defend his property. Especially from weeds. (Continue Reading…)

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Cheating Death

by Henry Herz

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I didn’t join in as my surviving family members conversed over dinner. Usually, the aroma of hearty pork and cabbage bigos stirred my appetite, but today it reminded me of the past, knotting my stomach. I winced—the clinking of utensils on plates like needles jabbing my brain.

Father gently pulled me aside. “What is wrong, my little Marya?” But he knew.

My sigh almost became a sob. “It’s been years, but I still miss them in the worst way, Tato.”

“Me too, Marya.”

Since the passing of my Roman Catholic mother, my father, a brilliant math and physics teacher, no longer suppressed his religious skepticism. By the age of fifteen, I too had lost faith in a deity who’d allowed disease to rip apart a loving family.

Science became my religion, defeating disease my Holy Grail. I vowed I’d wield science to cheat Death itself . . . for I still believed in it.

Father wrapped a strong, comforting arm around my shoulders and led me into the study. Boxes of laboratory equipment cluttered the room.

“What’s all this, Tato?”

He scowled. “My Russian supervisor barged into my lab at school and ordered me to shut it down. Sadly, we have no space to set up a lab here.”

My heart leaped. “Even so, will you teach me how to use the equipment?” It was a rhetorical question, for Father loved nothing more than encouraging his children to learn.

He smiled. “Yes, of course, Marya. Now help me carry these boxes to the shed out back.”

I did not receive a typical education, but then again, I was not a typical girl. Gradually under Father’s guidance, I gained familiarity with the equipment, supplementing my foundation in theoretical science. I filled a notebook with calculations and equations in my ungodly crusade to fight disease and repel Death. But I had no way to conduct experiments . . . yet. (Continue Reading…)

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Sea Curse

By Robert E. Howard

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And some return by the failing light
And some in the waking dream.
For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
That ride the rough roofbeam.
—Kipling

THEY were the brawlers and braggarts, the loud boasters and hard drinkers, of Faring town, John Kulrek and his crony Lie-lip Canool. Many a time have I, a tousle-haired lad, stolen to the tavern door to listen to their curses, their profane arguments and wild sea songs; half fearful and half in admiration of these wild rovers. Aye, all the people of Faring town gazed on them with fear and admiration, for they were not like the rest of the Faring men; they were not content to ply their trade along the coasts and among the shark-teeth shoals. No yawls, no skiffs for them! They fared far, farther than any other man in the village, for they shipped on the great sailing-ships that went out on the white tides to brave the restless grey ocean and make ports in strange lands.

Ah, I mind it was swift times in the little sea-coast village of Faring when John Kulrek came home, with the furtive Lie-lip at his side, swaggering down the gang-plank, in his tarry sea-clothes, and the broad leather belt that held his ever-ready dagger; shouting condescending greeting to some favored acquaintance, kissing some maiden who ventured too near; then up the street, roaring some scarcely decent song of the sea. How the cringers and the idlers, the hangers-on, would swarm about the two desperate heroes, flattering and smirking, guffawing hilariously at each nasty jest. For to the tavern loafers and to some of the weaker among the straightforward villagers, these men with their wild talk and their brutal deeds, their tales of the Seven Seas and the far countries, these men, I say, were valiant knights, nature’s noblemen who dared to be men of blood and brawn.

And all feared them, so that when a man was beaten or a woman insulted, the villagers muttered—and did nothing. And so when Moll Farrell’s niece was put to shame by John Kulrek, none dared even to put into words what all thought. Moll had never married, and she and the girl lived alone in a little hut down close to the beach, so close that in high tide the waves came almost to the door.

The people of the village accounted old Moll something of a witch, and she was a grim, gaunt old dame who had little to say to anyone. But she minded her own business, and eked out a slim living by gathering clams, and picking up bits of driftwood. (Continue Reading…)

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The Yearning of the All-Devouring Earth

by Marianne Kirby

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It’s always when we find a moment of peace that the universe remembers we exist—or maybe it’s less that the universe remembers, and more that it feels bored in our general vicinity and has to do something about that.

The local middle school flooded over the summer. The afternoon rain we expected regular as clockwork arrived and didn’t stop for what must have been two or two and a half weeks before the clouds disappeared completely. Then, on the first day back to school, a sinkhole opened up in the parking lot. It looked like someone had come along with a giant ice cream scoop and dipped out a portion of the asphalt and the dirt underneath it and the limestone underneath that, leaving the edges clean and sharp.

Everyone in town went to look at the sinkhole, to peer into the deep pit. I gazed down into the shadowy basin and I heard that man whispering to me, warning me. (Continue Reading…)

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The Hollow Temple (Part Two of The Dain Curse)

by Dashiel Hammett

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VI

It was tall, yet not so tall as it seemed, because it did not stand on the floor, but hovered with its feet a foot or more above the floor. Its feet—it had feet, but I don’t know what their shape was. They had no shape—just as its legs and torso, arms and hands, head and face were without shape—without fixed form. They writhed, swelling and contracting, stretching and shrinking, not greatly, but without pause. An arm would drift into the body, be swallowed by it, come out again as if poured out. The nose would stretch down over the gaping shapeless mouth, shrink back up, into the face until it was flush with the cheeks, grow out again. The eyes would spread across the face until they were one enormous eye that had blotted out all the upper face, then contract until there was no pedestal, then three, then two again. The legs became one thick leg, like a pedestal, then three, then two again. And no feature or member ever stopped its quivering and writhing until its contours could be determined, its shape recognized.

It, or he, was a thing like a man, who floated above the floor; with a horrible grimacing greenish face and pale flesh that was not flesh, that was visible in the darkness, and that was as fluid, and as unresting, and as transparent, as tidal water. (Continue Reading…)

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The Hollow Temple (Part Two of The Dain Curse)

by Dashiel Hammett

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IV

I spent most of the day fidgeting in and out of my room. The general vagueness of my job in this Temple hadn’t bothered me much before—I had had plenty of even more aimless operations in my twenty years of sleuthing—but now that Dr. Riese had found something to worry about—even though it was probably a medical worry and out of my field—I began to get restless, uneasy, irritable.

Dr. Riese did not show up that evening as he had promised. I supposed that one of the emergencies that are a regular part of a doctor’s life had held him elsewhere, but his not coming annoyed me.

I sat in my room from half past six on, with my door open, looking at Gabrielle Leggett’s door. Mildred took a tray into the girl’s room at a few minutes past seven. When she brought me mine I asked her how Gabrielle Leggett seemed to be.

“She’s all right, I suppose. I don’t think there’s much the matter with her but showing off.”

“What was she doing?”

“Sitting at the window, looking out, posing, if you ask me. How is it you’re not going down to the dining-room tonight?”

“Tired of eating in the graveyard atmosphere.” (Continue Reading…)

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The Hollow Temple (Part Two of The Dain Curse)

by Dashiel Hammett

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I

Eric Collison came into my office. There was too much pink in his eyes and not any in his skin. He sat down and said:

“She can’t go. They can’t let her go. You’ve got to go with her.”

His voice, like his face, was dull and tired and hopeless and bewildered.

“Miss Leggett?” I asked, though I didn’t need to; and then: “How is she now?”

“You’ve killed her.” (Continue Reading…)